You see, I am lucky enough to have two wonderful father figures. My biological father, Sam, is the poet, essayist, and literary translator, Sam Hamill.

You met my stepfather in an earlier post as my dad. For the record, his name is Skip.

I might as well tell you now that I also have a plethora of mothers. My biological mother is Nancy. Sam was later married to Tree, a smart, passionate woman who got me through my rebellious adolescence. They were married for almost 20 years.

Then Sam married a kind, loving, and beautiful woman named Gray. My father has great taste in women.

During those years with my father, there were always writers, painters, and musicians coming and going. I can vividly picture a group of people sitting around Sam’s dining table. The conversations would sometimes start with cooking, and eventually wind their way through poetry, Zen, and then on to the twang of Hank Williams Senior. Of course, as an adolescent, I didn't always appreciate it. But some of it I loved.

Sam and Tree, along with two friends, founded Copper Canyon Press which is a non-profit publisher dedicated to poetry. In those days, each book was entirely handcrafted - from the setting of the type to the sewing of the binding. The books were beautiful. Each one was a work of art meant to last a lifetime.

Sam and Tree in the early days.

I really grew up at the press. If I wasn't in school, I was at the press with my family. Creativity was encouraged. I always had some project on the go. One summer I wrote a small chapbook of poems. It was four or five pages in total. I took stacks leftover paper and carefully measured and cut until I had enough to print several copies. I set the type, locked it up in a press and printed a little edition of ten or twenty copies. I folded each page by hand and stitched the binding. The poems were all very adolescent and melodramatic. When I found that little chapbook thirty years later I was amazed by the amount of work done by that 14 year old girl.

I lived in a world where imagination and artistic expression were valued.

The day I moved to college

Eventually, I went off to university and studied art history. And then I continued on to the Ontario College of Art and Design University where I studied painting and ceramics for four years.

After all those years of studying and school, I still needed to make a living. The art world in Ontario was very political and I really am not good at politics. I think I was also struggling creatively. I was trying to find my own groove, my true calling, without any success.

I walked away from the life of an artist and went back to school for more education and a subsequent career in health care. I never let go of the creativity entirely. It was channeled into different outlets. I cooked like a mad woman, cultivated gardens, renovated homes, sewed now and then. So many things to make, so little time has been the story of my life.

More than twenty years slipped by. Unbelievable. They went so fast.

Life went on. There were marriages, divorces, new babies, and cross country moves. I continued working as a registered nurse.

One day, I got a phone call that would change the course of my life, but not in the way I expected.

Sam’s wife of many years, Gray, had untreatable, incurable cancer of the cerebral spinal fluid. The progression of symptoms is similar to MS or ALS, but much faster. It was devastating.

Gray and Sam

For the next ten months, my life was devoted to Sam and Gray. Every weekend I packed my bag and made the drive to their little home overlooking the water. I spent my days off with them, trying to care for Gray and support my father. After a few days, I would drive back home and to work for the week. Wash, rinse, repeat.

I realize in retrospect that I was exhausted. But during those days I just kept doing what needed to be done. My only goal was to get through each day.

I was desperate for an outlet. Desperate to make something with my hands, to create amid all the despair and heartache and and dying that surrounded me.

Several months into Gray's final illness I bought a funky pearl necklace from her sister who had a booth at the local craft market. That was my first ah-ha moment. Beading! It is relatively small, fairly portable, and doesn't require a bunch of expensive specialized equipment. Off I went to Michael's. I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

Two hours and $150 later I was ready to start making bead necklaces. I didn't now anything. I had never strung beads, had no idea about clasps or beading wire. But I liked the colors and textures. And it all fit into a tote bag.

Beading became my therapy. I would often come home from work, which was incredibly stressful, and say to Roger "I need some therapy time". Out came my tote of beads and wire. Several hours and a half-dozen necklaces later, my heart finally slowed down, my mind cleared, and I was able to cope again.

During my trips to Sam and Gray's, I regularly took my father out for dinner. Going out for dinner is one of his favorite things. He needed time away from his own grief. In spite of the crushing sadness, I have fond memories of those dinners. We spent hours talking and crying. Luckily, we found a wonderful Italian restaurant where we got to know the owners a little.

One night, Sam and I were sitting at our usual table - one in the little back room where it was quieter. We had been talking about Gray, and dying, and life. Tears were streaming down my face. The owner came over, concerned. I felt like such a fool. I have never been good at crying in front of other people. We told him our story as a way of explaining my tears. That restaurant became a regular haunt for the two of us. They always gave us a quiet table that was a bit more private. Sometimes they brought an extra stack of napkins for my tears.

After dinner, Sam would collapse into a worn out sleep. And I sought the sanctuary of the guest bedroom. It was therapy time. There were many nights that I sat on the bed in the dim light, Khai asleep on the floor beside me, and spread beads all over the blanket. I made necklaces until I couldn't see any more. I frequently fell asleep dreaming of beads.

Gray died early one summer morning. The sun was bright and beautiful. It was a perfect day as I recall. Warm, but not hot, a slight breeze blowing. She slipped away from us peacefully.

And I kept on making bead necklaces.

Summer turned into fall. Sam and I adjusted to our new lives and routine.

One day I was poking around online and found a continuing education program that offered a Tuesday night Introduction to Jewelry Making course. It promised to teach me the basics of silversmithing - sawing, forming, and soldering. I signed up on a whim.

That course was my second ah-ha moment. I am not sure how to explain what happened except to say that I just "got it". I will admit that my hand skills weren't very good, but I understood the metal in a way I really never understood paint. From that moment, I was set on a new path. I never looked in the review mirror. Never once doubted what I wanted to do.

The learning curve was steep. And there have been lots of times I have doubted my ability. Often, I have been unsure how I was going to make the piece I envisioned into a solid, three dimensional object. There were plenty of failures. Silver melted into a lump on my soldering board. A join that I couldn't get right. Solder that wouldn't flow. I kept working at it and with time my technical skills started to improve. Though I was not sure of the route, I have never been uncertain of my destination.

In the years that followed, I have spent thousands of hours in my studio. Jewelry-making is still my therapy. My hands crack and bleed. My nails are chipped and pitted from the tools. Silversmithing is dirty and gritty at times. And at others, sweetly poetic and deeply satisfying. Much like life itself. It grounds me and calms my spirit. The pounding of the hammer echoes the beat of my heart. Life has a different rhythm now.

It seems like forever since I have posted on The Pickled Pearl. The summer just got away from me this year. I have been very busy with markets and family for the last few months.

And now my annual studio sale is just a few days away. It is the one day every year that I make a special point of really showing my appreciation for my customers and all those who have helped me believe in myself and my craft.

My studio sale and open house will be this Tuesday, November 24th from 1:00 to 9:00 p.m. My entire inventory of handcrafted sterling silver jewelry will be 15% off. I will have some finger food and beverages for all. Even if you don't need to buy a little something as a Christmas gift, stop by to say hello. I would love to see everyone.

For the first time ever, I will be giving away a few door prizes to those who subscribe to The Pickled Pearl. Just to show you how grateful I am for your encouragement.

Today is my 50th birthday. I have had a hard time with this one. My 40s were amazing, the best decade of my life. Turning 50 has made me feel remorseful. It isn't just the getting older part that I am struggling with.

I often feel like I am at the beginning of my journey. That I am where I should have been twenty years ago. These sentiments are related to my craft, silversmithing. I am at a point where my technical skills are catching up with my vision. I am developing my own voice. Underneath everything, there is the fear that I started down this path too late in life. And that I am crazy for thinking I can do something with it.

I am inspired by people like Lisa Congdon, who took her first art class at 31 and is now a successful painter and illustrator. She has written about getting older (we are about the same age), determination, and perseverance.

In one blog post, I felt like Lisa was speaking to me personally when she wrote:

That painting class changed my life. Not in a big explosive way. And not overnight. But it set me on a trajectory that led to what I do today. Fifteen years later, I am a working artist. At first it was a hobby — a hobby that gained momentum and grew exponentially as I grew artistically and as I began to share my work on the Internet, which was relatively new at the time. Then several years later, in 2007, I left my job and began my self-employed life.

Along the way, there was no guidebook for me. I was self taught, and I'd never gone to art school. I was intimidated by the art world and had no clue about the worlds of illustration or licensing. Even selling my work on a platform like Etsy (also new back then) felt overwhelming. But over the course of time, I asked a lot of questions to whoever would listen and I read as much as I could. I tried new things. I kept a blog. As awkward as it felt, I began to spread the word about what I was making through all the ways that were available to me — in hopes that people would buy it, or want to hire me for an illustration job, or ask me to be in a gallery show.

And for a few years, all that effort felt frustrating. Stuff happened (the sales, the illustration jobs, the shows), but it came slowly. My income didn't add up to as much as I wanted or needed. But the art-making part was so fulfilling to me (in a way I had never experienced) that I kept at it, with the hope that some day I would hit a tipping point and begin to make a regular, full time income as an artist. I was determined.

I have been thinking about and planning my birthday for some time. I told Roger that I didn't want a party or a big to-do. All I really wanted was to be someplace else. I envisioned taking our little trailer to a remote lake and spending a couple of weeks camping with our dogs.

Things often don't work out the way you think they will. As it turned out, we had to change our plans and see my family. So Roger and I drove to North Idaho, with the dogs, and trailer in tow. While it hasn't been the trip I pictured, it has been lovely. We are situated on ten acres of beautiful forested land not far from the Canadian border. The dogs spend their days playing or basking in the sun. Roger and I spend our days quietly- cooking and doing a few chores. In the afternoon, I work in the little outdoor studio I have set up.

Cutting links for a bracelet

A frown of concentration as I try to solder in the wind

Khai loving the morning sun

Kagan is always happy when there is a ball involved.

In the evening, we sit on the deck and watch the hummingbirds take turns at the feeder. They have such fierce hearts for such tiny, delicate creatures. Hummingbirds will even take on crows and hawks to defend their territory. I marvel at their spirit and determination.

I look towards the next decade. I know where I want to go, but am not sure how I am going to get there. The path will be full of hills and valleys, a few bends, and likely some brambles and thorns.

I believe the key is determination paired with daily work. I aspire to have the heart of a hummingbird.

50 will come and go. I will work in my studio today. And tomorrow. And the day after that.

Roger and I will have a lovely dinner tonight with candles and champagne, set outside on this exquisite piece of land.

One more day will pass. The dishes still need to be done and the dogs have to be fed. There is joy in that simplicity.

I think sterling silver reminded me of the moon. And of the magic and mysteries concealed by the night. It was the feminine counterpart to the masculine sun.

Or maybe I just read too much Greek mythology as a kid.

A Navajo silver and turquoise ring that was given to me by my great aunt. It was most likely made in the 1930's or 40's.

One of my earliest jewelry memories is from when I was about 11 years old. We were living in the tiny town of Overgaard, Arizona. Everyone always sees of the arid desert of Pheonix and Tuscon when they imagine Arizona, but a large part of the state is mountainous with a high elevation plateau.

Overgaard is situated up in the mountains on the Mogollon Rim, 144 miles from Phoenix. It sits in the Eastern part of theApache-Sitgreaves National Forest. The population at the time was in the neighborhood of 400 people. There wasn’t much to the town. A couple of taverns and a corner store were about all Overgaard had to offer.

Because it was such a small community, we had a lot of freedom. My days were spent exploring the Ponderosa Pine forest, sailing down dirt roads. My nights were often spent with my sleeping bag at the edge of the forest near our property.

The elementary school was in the next community, Heber. It was a whole lot bigger with a whopping 2,000 or so people.

A Navajo concho brooch (circa 1930). It was my grandmother's. She gave it to my mother, who later gave it to me.

I can't remember what the occasion was. Maybe Christmas. Or maybe the end of the school year. Everyone in the class drew another student's name, and we were supposed to give them a gift at the school party. The boy I liked drew my name. I was terribly excited by the prospect of a gift from him.

He was Zuni Indian. I didn't really know him. I had never been to his house and never hung out with him after school. He was kind of shy and didn't say a whole lot. It was a typical early adolescent crush - infatuation without substance.

One of the things I didn't know about him was that he came from a family of silversmiths. Instead of buying me a gift, he made me a diminutive turquoise and silver ring. It was quite simple. A small round piece of aqua colored turquoise, framed in silver, and resting on a silver ring shank,

I loved that ring. I was so amazed that he could make something like that. And that he would spend that much time making something for me. It was one of the first pieces of real jewelry I ever owned.

We got to be friends after, that boy and I. We hung out a little over the summer and had a few adventures in the rural mountains. I have a vague picture of meandering paths and bicycles. Dirt roads and alfalfa fields. There was an old, abandoned travel trailer at the end of one of those dirt roads. It became the summertime hang out for all us kids.

And then one day we had an argument. I am sure it was something trivial. Very juvenile. He demanded that I give the ring back. It had been given as a gift. But that didn't matter. I threw the ring down, and it hit the dusty dirt track with a poof. That was the last time I saw the ring. If he didn't want me to have it, then I didn't want it either.

Dumb me.

Funny. I still think about that ring. But I can't even remember the boy's name.

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We went to into the mountains last week. It has been many years since I spent time in the back country.

Roger and I have spent the last ten years traveling the world – South America, Southeast Asia, and Africa. Last year, we decided to spend a few years exploring North America. We bought a little travel trailer with just enough room for the two of us and our two dogs. Now I am dreaming up road trips. I have enough on my wish list to last at least the next four years.

I used to spend a lot of time camping. Especially when I was having an internal tug-of-war. I learned to love solo trips. I would take my dogs and go. Sometimes it was “car” camping, where I had easy access to my vehicle for extra supplies.

And other times, I shouldered my trekking pack and climbed up to an alpine lake or some high creek. I pitched my tent, hung my food in a tree, and called the spot home for a few days.

Except for the first time I went out alone, I was never really scared. I had complete faith in my dogs and my own abilities. There was something very empowering about being in the wilderness without other human company. I was alone but never lonely.

Those dogs are long passed now, but I remember them often, and even dream about them on occasion. I hope they are running somewhere high in the mountains, nose to the ground, tails swishing with delight.

Khai and Kagan exploring the road ahead.

On those trips, as I sat by my small fire, heating water for camp coffee, my soul always grew still. Concerns over work, life, and relationships all lifted like morning fog. The mountains were my sanctuary.

So, in a way, going back up into the mountains last week was a little like going home. Having a trailer made it very cozy, even when we woke up to snow two mornings in a row. Really, snow in May. It snowed off and on for two days. It was beautiful and brisk, and a little eerie. The best part was that it melted away each afternoon.

This was the first back country trip for Kagan and Khai, our dogs. Oh my. They were in bliss. It took them all of about thirty seconds to land in the small lake. They came out caked in mud and muck. And then rolled in the dirt.

Soon, they were off sniffing out squirrels, sending them chattering angrily up trees. Khai yelping in delight at her prowess, the squirrel cursing her in a fast rat-a-tat-tat.

Wet dog. This is going to be fun in the trailer.

Working in my mobile studio

Soldering bangles

Making stacking rings

We spent the better part of a week at that lake, falling into a simple routine: hot coffee in the morning, followed by a vegetable and egg frittata.

I worked for a few hours each day, completing pieces in preparation for the coming markets. Roger and I would go for a walk in the afternoon, or play cards, or just sit and watch the fire as afternoon turned to dusk and the stars winked on one by one.

My mother and I when was about 18 months old. See, I told you I was born bossy.

My mother's birthday is soon. You might be wondering why that is important and what it has to do with The Pickled Pearl...

We almost lost her last year. It was Christmas Eve at our house. My husband, Roger, and I were planning our usual feast for Christmas dinner. Turkey, ham, browned butter and garlic mashed potatoes, candied yams, and homemade pies. You get the picture.

Mom and I spent all day in the kitchen prepping food for the next day. I hadn't seen her in a few months and we had a great time together, like we always do. She is an expert washer and chopper, and I was my usual bossy-pants self. I planned, shopped, and orchestrated the steps that would turn bags full of groceries into a delightful, gut stuffing, gastronomic event.

By dinner time, we were sick of the kitchen. With enough food laid out to feed a small army the next day, we just couldn't face starting all over again to cook that night's dinner. So we did what any self-respecting, food obsessed family would do. We went out for Chinese food.

We ate lemon chicken, minced beef lettuce cups, and whatever else struck our fancy while we gabbed. We just enjoyed being together again. After dinner, we had a glass of wine at home, and then decided to call it a night.

I had settled into bed with my book, and Roger was watching TV. All of a sudden my dad started screaming bloody murder. As I raced to grab something to put on (standing in front of my dad in my birthday suite wasn't an option), I was thinking that this wasn't going to be good.

I burst out of our bedroom. Roger was right behind me. I ran across the hall, and as soon as I opened the door to my parent's room, I knew my mom was dead. Among other things, I have been an emergency room nurse, and I know dead when I see it. She was a horrific shade of violet blue, indicating that she had been without circulating oxygen for some time.

Sure enough. There was no pulse. I started CPR. Roger, who is a paramedic, called the ambulance, got the oxygen and defibrillator out of his truck, and opened the front door so the ambulance could see which house needed help easily.

By the time he got back to the bedroom a couple of minutes had passed. We stopped CPR to check for a pulse. Unbelievable gratitude and relief washed through me when we felt the bop, bop, bop of a slow but strong heart beat.

I won't bore you with all details of several days in ICU and battery of tests. What I will say is that my mother made a 100% recovery and is now the proud owner of a brand new pacemaker.

So my mother's birthday is soon. And I haven't seen her since she was released from the hospital and drove home to North Idaho. I planned a surprise visit. She is turning 70, and I want to be with her.

I gave her a new sewing machine last fall as an early birthday present. She is crafty still and loves to sew. Her old machine dates back at least to the 1960s. Still, I wanted to give her a gift that she could open on her actual birthday. But what?